


Arms, take your last embrace

by stormsonjupiter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Codependency, Crying, Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt No Comfort, I'm just feeling all the feelings with Aziraphale and Crowley, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Men Crying, No Sex, No Smut, Reminiscing, Sad Ending, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicide, This is super angsty and I don't know why I wrote it I'm very sorry, Tragedy, Unhappy Ending, codependent Crowley and Aziraphale, why do these boys do this to me, you go too fast for me crowley is referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 18:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormsonjupiter/pseuds/stormsonjupiter
Summary: Alternate Universe:What if Crowley hadn't used his holy water by the time he though Aziraphale was dead? Would he use it on himself?This is my version of Az/Crow's Romeo and Juliet suicide scene.TW: suicide.





	Arms, take your last embrace

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to repeat that there is a major character suicide in this fic, so please be advised.

The fire consumed Aziraphale’s bookshop, flames licking up the sides of the building with a roaring heat. 

Crowley, walking away from the inferno ripped off his sunglasses, which were now completely destroyed.

“I shouldn’t litter, should I?” the demon asked the air, his mind in shock. 

“I mean..I probably should litter—I am a demon after all—but nobody’s really…keeping score anymore.”

He apathetically let the glasses fall from his fingers, and walked over to the driver’s side of his Bentley. He clutched the handle, swung open the door, and slid inside. Normally the Bentley gave him comfort. He loved that car—the way he sidled into the leather seats, the way the gears shifted from second to third, the way the engine purred while he sped through the busy London streets. 

But now, the car gave him no comfort. In fact, he barely registered its existence. This is because, although he loved the car dearly….

He love Aziraphale more. So much more.

He turned the ignition and sped away. Feeling naked, he searched for another pair of glasses. He fumbled to put them on, and the second they landed on the bridge of his nose, hot tears began to stream down his cheeks. 

The demon’s corporal form felt like it was it was crashing through the earth, straight back into the boiling pit of sulfur in hell. He, a fallen angel, was falling again, dragged down by a lead weight that had suddenly filled his stomach.

There was a stabbing at his heart, and his arms felt heavy as he tried turned the wheel of the Bentley. 

Aziraphale, the angel with curls like sun-kissed silk and pale eyes, was gone forever.

“Why?!“ sobbed Crowley. “Why, Angel, please no, why?”

Flashes of their life together played in Crowley’s mind. 6,000 years together, and the demon remembered every moment they had spent together, relishing every second he could simply be in the angel’s presence since the beginning. 

He remembered Eden, when he first fell in love with Aziraphale. He’d espied him standing on the wall, watching the humans as they left the garden. Crowley should have wanted to avoid an angel, but something drew the snake to the figure on the wall, so he slithered up to the celestial.

It was, of course, when he learned that Aziraphale gave away the flaming sword to the humans that Crowley knew he was in love. Aziraphale was…different from the other angels (and demons, of course). He was special. His nervous countenance was oh-so-adorable.

Crowley was blinded by the weeping, and he slid a hand under his lenses to wipe away some of the tears. He nearly hit a pedestrian, but he didn’t notice. And even if he had hit them, he wouldn’t have cared. 

He remembered all the times Aziraphale was distressed at human suffering. He remembered the time Aziraphale tempted him to get oysters in Rome. The thought made him chuckle, but the laugh turned into a low sob. 

He remembered the time in the sixties they nearly had…something…the words “you go too fast for me Crowley,” still ringing in his ears. Oh, how those words haunted him—but also gave him hope—hope that one day….

One day…

A day that would never come.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he whined, and sniffed his nose. He hadn’t realized where he was driving until he pulled up to his loft. He put the car in park and set the break. 

What was the point? 

There was no point. Not any more. Not without Aziraphale. 

As he walked into the building and to the elevator, he continued to think about Aziraphale. God—Satan—Somebody he could be so bloody annoying. 

His ridiculous magic tricks. Who on earth would think those were remotely entertaining? Or what about going to France wearing aristocratic garb while they were cutting off aristocratic heads all for…crepes? Or the way that he yelled cheers at Hamlet—it was all so bloody awkward. 

And the memories made his heart swell…and then break again. 

The elevator door opened, and he went to his loft, unlocking the door with a snap of his fingers. He slammed the door with gusto, and walked with purpose, hips swaying. He approached his copy of the Mona Lisa which decorated the wall.

The last few days had been wonderful, though tense. He thought of how grateful Aziraphale looked when Crowley removed the paintball stain from his jacket. His expression had made the demon’s heart melt. 

Oh, what Crowley would have done to get the angel to make that face again…and again…and again.

The Mona Lisa swung open like a door, revealing a safe. Crowley opened it and stared at the contents: a plastic thermos, containing the only comfort he had any more. 

“A gift from my angel,” he whispered to himself as he stared.

He turned away from the open safe, and went to seek out rubber gloves and a tumbler. 

On his way, however, he noticed the objects he had collected over the years. He first saw the stone eagle from the church in which he rescued Aziraphale’s books. He absentmindedly lifted a hand and gingerly stroked the face. 

He remembered rescuing Aziraphale, how absolutely surprised he had been when the demon appeared, hopping from foot to foot as the church’s holy floor burned him. 

They saved each other that night.

Aziraphale had liked to toe the line between angel and demon. Heaven and Hell. Good and Evil. 

And yet, when push came to shove, he always had Crowley’s back. 

“But he was so…wonderful. Ridiculous but…perfect. How could they…” he murmured to the stone eagle. 

The eagle did not respond. 

Revenge flashed across his mind for a brief second. But he quickly resolved that without Aziraphale he was nothing. Aziraphale was the one who gave him strength, strength to face the forces of heaven and hell. 

Without Aziraphale he was hollow and broken. 

He looked over at his sculpture of the demon wrestling the angel. A wry smile crept over his face as he remembered pushing Aziraphale roughly against the wall in the former convent. 

“You liked that, didn’t you Angel?” he said to the sculpture. 

But the sculpture didn’t respond. 

Crowley was alone. Absolutely alone. 

He sighed and went back to his task, procuring black rubber gloves and a tumblr. In the tumbler he poured the finest single malt scotch he had in stock, downed a glass, then poured another. 

If he was going to go down, he was going to go down in style. 

He set the tumbler upon the table, in front of his ornate throne. He also procured a burned book that he’d taken from the shop. It was the only thing he could grab that wasn’t actively on fire. He placed the book next to the tumbler and stroked it. 

The last remnant of Aziraphale.

He opened the thermos, and using tongs he gently poured some of the contents into the tumblr of scotch. He was careful not to get any droplets outside the glass or on the table. 

When he went, he was going to go his way. 

…

“I'll figure it out as I go,” Aziraphale said as he stretched out a disincorporated finger to the rotating globe. 

He had to find Crowley. He knew he could—they always could find one another. 

So, he would find Crowley, and then tell him where to go. He knew how to stop the apocalypse. He knew where the boy was. 

They could save everything.

He touched the globe, right on London, and the earth sucked his essence into the terrestrial plane. He couldn’t feel anything, exactly, but he thought very hard about Crowley and listened. Atoms whirled past him. He could hear the demon—almost hear him—yes, that’s him.

Aziraphale realized that Crowley seemed distraught. Something was wrong—terribly terribly wrong. 

“Oh, Crowley!” the angel screamed. 

And suddenly he was standing next to the demon, who was sitting in an elaborate golden chair, downing a glass of scotch. 

Only it wasn’t just scotch. Aziaphale noticed that it contained holy water. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screamed.

Crowley dropped the glass as the liquid began to burn him from the inside out. 

It was painful, so very painful. 

“A..zir..aa,” Crowley croaked as he turned in time to see the faint essence of Aziraphale hovering next to him. 

“My dear, no! What have you done!” Aziraphale’s voice was panicked. 

Crowley doubled over in pain as his insides squirmed into black nothingness. 

“No, my love, please!” Aziraphale screamed, and he did something bold. 

He inhabited Crowley’s body. 

It didn’t explode, which had been a concern of Aziraphale at some point. But it was horrible. Aziraphale could feel the agony as the demon was ripped from the plane of existence. 

It was dark. There was no light. But they could feel one another. And some part of it felt right.

And in another world, another life, another…reality…Aziraphale knew that they belonged together. Their essences, their souls, felt complete when they were united as one.

But it was never to be.

“Angel?” the voice was faint, but there. It was Crowley’s essence, slowly fading out of reality. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale responded, wrapping his disincorporated wings around the fading demon. His spirit reached out for the demon, who was slowly slipping away. 

“You were dead…” Crowley wheezed.

“Disincorporated.” 

“Oh..angel..there’s so much I want to say…” the demon’s voice was getting fainter by the moment.

“I know, my dear, my love.” If Aziraphale had a corporeal heart, it would have broken into a thousand pieces.

“I….love you…angel. You’re my…best…”

“I love you too, Crowley.” Aziraphale sobbed.

“…friend.”

And then Aziraphale found that he clutched at nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm...sorry everyone. 
> 
> If you'd like angst with a happy ending with Aziraphale and Crowley to cleanse your palette, check out literally any of my other stories. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated, but I'm honestly a little scared of your reactions to this. 
> 
> I also wanted to play with the idea that Crowley is unhealthily codependent. And I do wonder, in the show, if he was suicidal when Az found him at the bar. But I don't know. I'd be interested in your thoughts.


End file.
